Violent Triumphs (White Monarch 3)

“I didn’t trade you. I let him think he had you for a while so I could ensure our survival—and it worked, didn’t it? We’re both still standing.”

That he should live while the heavens had taken Mamá . . .

I inhaled through my nose to control my urge to unleash on Diego the way I’d fantasized. I still didn’t know if Cristiano was okay. I had to play along until I knew more, as difficult as it was.

“I’m really uncomfortable,” I said gently. “Will you please untie me?”

His eyes roamed from my face down to my breasts, stomach, and thighs. “You look different,” he said. “Leaner. Stronger. How do I know you won’t try to fight back?”

“Fight you? Even if I knew how, I wouldn’t do anything that stupid. You can easily overpower me.” He’d always treated me like his breakable princess, so I’d play the role that had once come easily to me. Diego was right, though—I was stronger. And with enough time, I could free my hands from almost any binding. Solomon and I continued to train almost daily, and Cristiano especially liked Solomon to put me through potentially life-threatening scenarios. It had been a rigorous few months.

At least, up until last week when I’d started faking a wrist injury until I could go see Paula at the clinic for a pregnancy test.

“I didn’t do anything at Cristiano’s house but ride my horse and play soccer with the staff to keep myself occupied. And anyway,” I added, nodding across the aisle of the open van, “I can’t exactly fight back with guns trained on me.”

Diego clucked at the man with the 9mm on his knee, and he holstered it. “They’re overly cautious,” Diego explained. “They think this is a kidnapping, not a rescue.”

Diego no doubt picked his words carefully, hoping they’d influence my point of view. This wasn’t a rescue—to him or to me.

Diego wanted me alive for a reason, which meant he needed me.

I was leverage against Cristiano and my father—but to what end? He’d obviously joined forces with another group, most likely Belmonte-Ruiz. Which meant after five months, they’d broken their truce. If it had ever been real.

Diego took a knife from the leg pocket of his utility pants, flipped it open, and cut the restraints at my elbows. I rolled my shoulders forward, stretching my arms as I sat up slowly.

I could see him in all his glory now. Tall, muscular, with the baby-faced version of Cristiano’s brutally beautiful face. It was Cristiano’s black hair and eyes, and his hollowed, high cheekbones that made him too much for the silver screen. The world couldn’t handle it, sadly for them.

I tried tapping into that attraction for Diego again. “Where have you been?” I asked. “In the church you said you’d come back for me. You didn’t.”

“That’s why I’m here now.” He took my hand, bringing it to his mouth. “Poor girl. You’ve always had someone to rescue you. Me, Barto, Costa, Cristiano. And yet, we’ve all hurt you, too.”

“The Diego I knew would never hurt me.” I took back my hand, rolling my wrists with exaggeration, hoping to lean in to the frailty he expected of me.

“I’m not the one who changed. My brother did.” He put his knife away. “First, Cristiano took my parents from me. Then he took you and Costa. He made the first move—I’m just playing the game.”

Diego believed he was the one who’d been wronged. He’d have carried on his parents’ gruesome business without hesitation despite all the lives it would ruin.

I couldn’t make my move now, and seeing Diego in the flesh had thrown me—but while he’d spent practically a lifetime scheming, that didn’t mean he couldn’t trip up. He knew me well—but I knew him, too. I just needed to be patient. To think strategically. To stay alert and learn as much as possible about what he was planning.

Max wouldn’t have lied to Cristiano. Since his return, he’d been as loyal as ever. If anything, he was more protective of us. So there had to be another explanation for Diego’s sudden return. “Max saw you in a body bag.”

“I know. As I said, I risked my life for you—I almost died that day.”

That day. I remembered it well—at least, the moments when Max had come stumbling home to us and broken the news. Diego had put Max, Cristiano, my father, my mother, and myself in harm’s way too many times. I licked my lips, finding my mouth dry. “How’d you do it?” I asked. “And why?”

“Cristiano would always be a threat to me. I needed him to believe I was dead.”

The road turned bumpy, and I steadied myself on the van’s side panel, suddenly overwhelmed with nausea. “Why?” I asked.

“So Cristiano would drop his guard while Belmonte-Ruiz and I formed a plan to get you out.”